“I know he went to Gottingen University to study medicine in 1824 and Heine was there studying law.”
“Oh aye? And Hitler and Wittgenstein were in the same class at school. So what?”
“So why don’t we flaunt our knowledge in The Dog and Duck one night?”
“Well, it’s quiz night tonight. You never know. It might come up.”
Thus had armistice been signed before hostilities proper began. When talk finally turned to the writing course, Penn, after token haggling, accepted terms for making the occasional “old pro” appearance, and went on to suggest that if Johnson was interested in a contribution from some-one at the other end of the ladder, he might do worse than soon-to-be-published novelist Ellie Pascoe, an old acquaintance from her days on the university staff and a member of the threatened literary group.
This version of that first encounter was cobbled together from the slightly different accounts Ellie received from both participants. She and Johnson had hit it off straightaway. When she invited him home for a meal, the conversation had naturally centred on matters literary, and Pascoe, feeling rather sidelined, had leapt into the breach when Johnson had casually mentioned his difficulty in finding a squash partner among his generally unathletic colleagues.
His reward for this friendly gesture when Johnson finally left, late, in a taxi, had been for Ellie to say, “This game of squash, Peter, you will be careful.”
Indignantly Pascoe said, “I’m not quite decrepit, you know.”
“I’m not talking about you. I meant, with Sam. He’s got a heart problem.”
“As well as a drink problem? Jesus!”
In the event it had turned out that Johnson suffered from a mild drug-controllable tachycardia, but Pascoe wasn’t looking forward to describing to his wife the rapid and undignified conclusion of his game with someone he’d categorized as an alcoholic invalid.
“Mate of Ellie’s, eh?” said Dalziel with a slight intake of breath and a sharp shake of the VCR which, with greater economy than a Special Branch file, consigned Johnson to the category of radical, subversive, Trotskyite trouble-maker.
“Acquaintance,” said Pascoe. “Do you want a hand with that, sir?”
“No. I reckon I can throw it out of the window myself. You’re very quiet, mastermind. What do you reckon?”
Sergeant Edgar Wield was standing before the deep sash-window. Silhouetted against the golden autumn sunlight, his face deep shadowed, he had the grace and proportions to model for the statue of a Greek athlete, thought Pascoe. Then he moved forward and his features took on detail, and you remembered that if this were a statue, it was one whose face someone had taken a hammer to.
“I reckon you need to look at the whole picture,” he said. “Way back when Roote were a student at Holm Coultram College before it became part of the university, he got sent down as an accessory to two murders, mainly on your evidence. From the dock he says he looks forward to the chance of meeting you somewhere quiet one day and carrying on your interrupted conversation. As the last time you saw him alone he was trying to stove your head in with a rock, you take this as a threat. But we all get threatened at least once a week. It’s part of the job.”
Dalziel, studying the machine like a Sumo wrestler working out a new strategy, growled, “Get a move on, Frankenstein, else I’ll start to wish I hadn’t plugged you in.”
Undeterred, Wield proceeded at a measured pace.
“Model prisoner, Open University degree, Roote gets maximum remission, comes out, gets job as a hospital porter, starts writing an academic thesis, obeys all the rules. Then you get upset by them threats to Ellie and naturally Roote’s one of the folk you need to take a closer look at. Only when you go to see him, you find he’s slashed his wrists.”
“He knew I was coming,” said Pascoe. “It was a setup. No real danger to him. Just a perverted joke.”
“Maybe. Not the way it looked when it turned out Roote had absolutely nothing to do with the threats to Ellie,” said Wield. “He recovers, and a few months later he moves here because (a) his supervisor has moved here and (b) he can get work here. You say you checked with the probation service?”
“Yes,” said Pascoe. “All done by the book. They wanted to know if there was a problem.”
“What did you tell the buggers?” said Dalziel, who classed probation officers with Scottish midges, vegetarians and modern technology as Jobian tests of a virtuous man’s patience.
“I said no, just routine.”
“Wise move,” approved Wield. “See how it looks. Man serves his time, puts his life back together, gets harassed without cause by insensitive police officer, flips, tries to harm himself, recovers, gets back on track, finds work again, minds his own business, then this same officer starts accusing him of being some sort of stalker. It’s you who comes out looking like either a neurotic headcase or a vengeful bastard. While Roote…just a guy who’s paid his debt and wants nothing except to live a quiet life. I mean, he didn’t even want the hassle of bringing a harassment case against you, or a wrongful dismissal case against the Sheffield hospital.”
He moved from the window to the desk.
“Aye,” said Dalziel thoughtfully. “That’s the most worrying thing, him not wanting to kick up a fuss. Well, lad, it’s up to you. But me, I know what I’d do.”
“And what’s that, sir?” enquired Pascoe.
“Break both his legs and run him out of town.”
“I think perhaps the other way round might be better,” said Pascoe judiciously.
“You reckon? Either way, you can stick this useless thing up his arse first.”
He glowered at the VCR which, as if in response to that fearsome gaze, clicked into life and a picture blossomed on the TV screen.
“There,” said the Fat Man triumphantly. “Told you no lump of tin and wires could get the better of me.”
Pascoe glanced at Wield who was quietly replacing the remote control unit on the desk, and grinned.
An announcer was saying, “And now Out and About, your regional magazine programme from BBC Mid- Yorkshire, presented by Jax Ripley.”
Titles over an aerial panorama of town and countryside accompanied by the first few bars of “On Ilkla Moor Baht ’at” played by a brass band, all fading to the slight, almost childish figure of a young blonde with bright blue eyes and a wide mouth stretched in a smile through which white teeth gleamed like a scimitar blade.
“Hi,” she said. “Lots of goodies tonight, but first, are we getting the policing we deserve, the policing we pay for? Here’s how it looks from the dirty end of the stick.”
A rapid montage of burgled houses and householders all expressing, some angrily, some tearfully, their sense of being abandoned by the police. Back to the blonde, who recited a list of statistics which she then precis’d: “So four out of ten cases don’t get looked at by CID in the first twenty-four hours, six out of ten cases get only one visit and the rest is silence, and eight out of ten cases remain permanently unsolved. In fact, as of last month there were more than two hundred unsolved current cases on Mid-Yorkshire CID’s books. Inefficiency? Underfunding? Understaffing? Certainly we are told that the decision not to replace a senior CID officer who comes up to retirement shortly is causing much soul searching, or, to put it another way, a bloody great row. But when we invited Mid-Yorkshire Constabulary to send someone along to discuss these matters, a spokesman said they were unable to comment at this time. Maybe that means they are all too busy dealing with the crime wave. I would like to think so. But we do have Councillor Cyril Steel, who has long been interested in police matters. Councillor Steel, I gather you feel we are not getting the service we pay for?”
A bald-headed man with mad eyes opened his mouth to show brown and battlemented teeth, but before he could let fly his arrows of criticism, the screen went dark as Dalziel ripped the plug out of the wall socket.
“Too early in the day to put up with Stuffer,” he said with a shudder.
“We must be able to take honest criticism, sir,” said Pascoe solemnly. “Even from Councillor Steel.”
He was being deliberately provocative. Steel, once a Labour councillor but now an Independent after the Party ejected him in face of his increasingly violent attacks on the leadership, hurling charges which ranged from cronyism to corruption, was the self-appointed leader of a crusade against the misuse of public money. His targets included everything from the building of the Heritage, Arts and Library Centre to the provision of digestive biscuits at council committee meetings, so it was hardly surprising that he should have rushed forward to lend his weight to Jax Ripley’s investigation into the way police resources were managed in Mid-Yorkshire.
“Not his criticism that bothers me,” growled Dalziel. “Have you ever got near him? Teeth you could grow moss on and breath like a vegan’s fart. I can smell it through the telly. Only time Stuffer’s not talking is when he’s
